


The Five Stages of Grief

by frostedstorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostedstorm/pseuds/frostedstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost. </p><p>e.i.</p><p>How Hamilton learned to live after the death of John Laurens</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stage One: Denial

September 16, 1782

Alexander clasped the open letter in his clammy hands. Vaguely, he was aware that he was tremoring. The words seemed to ricochet around his brain, leaving nothing behind but an echoing silence. Silence. It had been so long since the thoughts constantly racing were stilled, but somehow, this silence was louder than any of those.

“Alexander? What does it say?” Eliza.

Her voice drew him from his shock. The letter dropped. As if she were approaching a skittish animal, his wife picked up the letter from his feet. He waited. In. Out. Alexander forced himself to keep his breathing steady--a luxury his dearest Laurens could no longer afford. He could faintly hear Eliza’s choked gasp. He knew at once the words she had just read:

On Tuesday the 27th of August, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed in an ambush gunfight against British troops in South Carolina.

Those words would be engrained in his heart forever, scarred into his chest. A hand lightly touched his shoulder. He could feel every point where the hand made contact with his skin. It was overwhelming, hypersensitive. He shook it away. The hand didn’t return, but his wife’s words floated into his register.

“Please, my dear, sit down at least.”

“No.”

He shook his head and stumbled away from her. His voice didn’t sound right to his ears. Impossible. He'd written to John but a month ago. Laurens had been there with him at Yorktown. He negotiated the terms of surrender. His glorious, honor-obsessed Laurens would not be bested by a trifle ambush when he knew the war was over. His death brought him no kleos.

“Alexander-“

“No, I have so much work to do.”

His footsteps thudded against the wooden steps until he reached his cluttered office. He leaned against the door when he shut it, breathing hard. He was hardly aware of how he made it up here in the first place.

It was a joke. It had to be.  Major General Greene had a cruel sense of humor. His Excellency, General Washington would have written to him if he had heard the news of one of his former aid’s deaths, especially knowing how close the pair of them were like the famed Achilles and Patrolcus of old. It was foolish even to believe such a report even for a second. Oh, Laurens would love to hold it over him how easily he was fooled by a simple letter. The man probably played a part in this jest himself. Surely, a letter would come a few days hence ending the joke. He always was the more brilliant one in the army.

Feeling lighter, his poured himself a small glass of brandy. Alexander rummaged around his papers, searching for a clean sheet. He smiled as he picked up his quill, already planning just how he would thwart his friend’s scheme.

_New York City, September 16th, 1782_

_I am forced to admit, my dearest Laurens, you gave us quite a shock with the letter we received from Major General Greene today. It seems a new, darker sense of humor has befallen you. I myself, not being one to oft discourage soldiers of the little comforts one can find in war, must warn you against this sort of childish play. I hope, soon enough, that you come join us in New York, and there shall be no need for any of that sort of humor. It shall be just as the old days once were._

_Although giving thought to the letter I received today, I realize that it bore no truth. You may, in good conscience, wish to know that for a few minutes I fell prey to the falsehood. You, glory bound, would never fall pray to such an ambush. I was with you both nights you nearly fell into death’s prying hands. I had thought we would lose you when you returned, shot through the shoulder. Or perhaps if that memory fails you, although I am clueless as to how a man could forget such a thing, do you remember Germantown? Remember when you were shot in the shoulder again and foolishly continued to fight, sword in your other hand? If you can remember the worry it caused me though I had you in my sights, alive and otherwise well, can you imagine the grief it caused me to receive such a report with nothing to contradict it? I beg of you, do not subject me to such torture again._

_My dearest, while on the subject, I must berate you for not writing often enough. It has been a month since I have last writ you, and still, you have not replied. I await impatiently for your next letter, which cannot come soon enough after the news we were subject too. Even if you believe there is nothing of interest to your Alexander, I beseech you to write even the most trivial details of your day because even those are of the greatest importance to me._

_We greatly look forward to your arrival in New York, which will happen otherwise I shall be the one to drag you from the line of fire into the safety of our home. We all, even Philip, though he knows you by name only, miss you dearly. Philip has even starting speaking. I am proud to say that he beckons after his father in that he spoke my name first, and since, has not stopped babbling the new words he has learned. Eliza says that she can most certainly see the resemblance, and I am certain, that you who knows me in ways that others do not, would see just how much he is my child. He even spoke your name just the other week although it was only the first syllable. You shall have to help me coach him how to speak like a proper gentlemen._

_I miss you greatly and urge you to write swift. Your most affectionate friend,_

_Alexander Hamilton_


	2. Stage Two: Anger

October 13th, 1782

            Alexander waited. A day passed. Then two. Days turned into weeks, which to soon turned into a month. Every day, everyone he knew gave him pitying looks when they saw him in the streets. When Washington wrote to him of John Laurens’ passing, the façade he had built to protect himself was knocked to the ground.

            He dropped his glass. There was no room in his heart for him to properly be able to mourn his beloved friend. How could Laurens do this to him? Sometimes, the man was the only thing that kept him from hating the entire war. It wasn’t as if his death was necessary or furthered their cause for revolution. The war was over. Laurens knew it as well as he. The damn fool just left him here. Alone. The glass shattered.

            Alexander was aware of the choked sob that made its way up his throat before he could stop it. The world was spinning, but he couldn’t tell what made it. Anger? Fear? Desperation? Fury rose within him. He had written to Laurens about how much he despised the world whenever they were separated, but that couldn’t compare to how he felt now. He backed himself into the corner, and no longer to support himself, he sank to the ground. He was shaking.

            No, he couldn’t blame John for his—he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words yet. As foolish, reckless, and unnecessary as Laurens’s actions had been, Laurens was not the one to fire the volley of shots. If only the war wasn't over so he could justify the slaughter of the men who had stolen his dear Laurens from him. He could hardly get away with that now.

            Alexander used the drawer knobs to pull himself up off the ground. Any other day it wouldn’t have felt like such an accomplishment. He didn’t even bother pouring the brandy into a new glass before drinking straight from the bottle. It wasn’t right. A man as good and honest as Laurens, despite whatever flaws he happened to be blinded too, should not have been felled by the British in such a minor skirmish. There had been so many other, grander battles that could have taken either Laurens or himself so that they’d go down in history. And for a time, wasn’t that what they both had wanted? To go down in history? There would be little honor, little to remember in his death.

            John Laurens would have changed the world. He was sure of that. Besides His Excellency, there was no one else he would have wanted to determine the fate of their new nation. He had more character than anyone gave him credit for—plans that would set their country on the right path. Those abolitionist ideas and his plan to free three thousand black slaves died with him. If he hadn’t died, if he wasn’t stolen from Alexander, they could have done so much together. He had begged John to come up to New York with him. The generals would understand how much work Laurens had done for the army, and while they would be missing a great asset, it wasn’t as if John hadn’t done his service to his country. He had paid for it with more than any man could hope to compare.

            He swayed on his feet. The bottle was almost empty. The brandy was doing its job, but it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t enough. The world could never to anything to rectify taking him, his most beloved of friends. Already some deity had seen it fit to take from him his mother, father, brother, his entire town, and now it had taken the one person he had been sure would be by his side already. Hadn’t the world gotten its revenge for whatever misdeed he had done? What on earth had he done to deserve this? What more could they take from him now? Eliza? His son? No, they didn’t get to do this, not this. He had worked, fought so hard to get even where he was today.

            He threw the bottle to the wall with a satisfyingly loud crash. The wall was tainted with the little liquid that remained. In this lighting, he could almost imagine it was blood. Glass shards now littered that side of his office. He would be a fool to even step over there without anything covering his feet. It was likely that he would break one of his more important veins. Of course, his outburst did not go unnoticed. Eliza quietly opened the door to his office, holding Philip in her arms. Everyone seemed so quiet around him these days as if he needed coddling.

            “Alexander? What’s going on?” Her eyes darted around the room as if searching for an answer before looking at him with a pity-filled gaze. He was tired of the pity.

            “Papa!” Philip babbled happily, reaching out. He couldn’t understand the situation with the innocence only those of his age had. Alexander knew that he would be devastated when it left. Philip’s face crumpled when Alexander didn’t move from his position. Alexander glanced between Philip’s face and Eliza’s.

            “I can’t.” His voice sounded broken to his own ears but Eliza seemed to understand.

            “Just come over here. We’ll probably need a maid to clean up this mess. Step along the edges,” she instructed. Alexander was never more grateful for his wife.

            With a great deal of effort and clinging to the cabinets, he made it to the door with only a few minor scratches. He would have to remember to keep the door shut when Philip started crawling if they hadn’t already cleaned it up. He wouldn’t want to be responsible for another person leaving him.

            “Why don’t you put him to bed?” Eliza suggested, handing the infant to his father, “He’s been asking for you.”

            Alexander nodded, and holding Philip, he could feel some of his fury draining away.


	3. Stage Three: Bargaining

December 24, 1982

 

            Panic tore through Alexander when Philip sneezed. The doctors had reassured him repeatedly that it was only a small cold and that it would likely pass with no trouble. Still, he was haunted by the memories of when the doctors had initially said that so many years ago. His mother had died then of a simple fever. He couldn’t lose someone else.

            “He’s going to be alright you know,” Angelica’s voice comes from the door. He turns. Alexander let out a humorless chuckle.

            “It’ll be his first Christmas tomorrow,” Alexander said somberly.

            Angelica smiled, “I’m glad I can be here with you for this. We leave in a few weeks for France, you know.”

            “John should be here.”

            Angelica’s smile faded as if she understood what he was going through. He couldn’t bring himself to correct her.

            “Yes, I think he would have loved to be here.” The _for you_ went unspoken.

            Perhaps if he had only written sooner, if he had only communicated how much he would have loved to have Laurens in New York, laying the foundation for a new nation. If he had just convinced John that his crusade for honor was over, perhaps he wouldn’t have fallen prey to his own hubris, but no, he was felled like Patroclus, the most honorable of the Greeks. It would have been enough for John to at least spend this one last Christmas with him. If only he could have more time. It was the one thing he wanted. More time.

            “Will you be going to Mass with us tomorrow morning? Your godson can’t wait to see you,” Angelica said, shifting topics when she realized Alexander wasn’t very forthcoming on that subject, not that he had been since he received the news.

            The thought of going to Church hadn’t even occurred to him. It wasn’t as if God was being particularly helpful in his own life. What could he give thanks to God for that he hadn’t fought tooth and nail to get. All God seemed to do is watch from afar at the bloodshed and toy with the lives of humanity with an indifferent air. What sort of capricious God was out there although now he often doubted the existence? How could one of that power be so apathetic to the suffering of the creatures he supposedly constructed. Yes, he would praise the Lord, but only when the Lord did something worthy of his praise.

            Bring John back. That was his constant prayer, his beg. He would give anything for the life of his fallen confidant. Alexander wouldn’t hesitate once before sacrificing his life away if it meant Laurens would be breathing and alive. He would only wish that he would be there for at least a few minutes to see object of his φιλία. After all he’d been through, didn’t he at least deserve that little piece of sanctuary. Hell, he’d throw himself back into the war if it meant Laurens would just be alive. So far all his prayers had been unanswered.

            “Alexander?”

            Perhaps if he pleaded to God to turn back time, then maybe he could have a chance to start over. He would know now not to leave the war effort until Laurens was safe and away from harm. The second time, he would get it right. Some force of nature could take away all he’d earned, but it would all be worth it if Laurens could just be alive. Until his call was answered, God deserved no praise.

            “No.”

            Angelica nodded and didn’t press the matter.

            “He would have wanted you to be happy, you know.”

            What did Angelica know of John Laurens? She had only met the man a few times. If John could have just stayed alive, he was certain that the pair would have been great friends.

            “This wallowing in your misery, it’s not good for you. Even while he was alive, he did his best to protect you, to make you happy. Eliza tells me that you’ve almost stopped writing. You need to talk to someone at least.”

            Alexander still said nothing as if the words were lost on him. If John were to just come back, not just in his whiskey-induced hazes or sleep-deprived hallucinations, then maybe he could find his words again.

            “Your actions bring him no honor in his death. By shutting everything out or having bouts of temper, you dishonor him and what he stood for. How do you think he’d react if he saw you?”

            Alexander snapped.

            “Do you think that I hadn’t already thought about that? If he was alive right now, and that’s all I ask, he’d be able to tell me, but he’s not. I would give anything to change that.”

            “You still see him everywhere, his mark,” Angelica said softly. “You see an object from the war and remember a story with him. You go to pick up a quill only to realize that he had given you that pen, and you remember how often you would use that quill to spell out his name.”

            Alexander nodded. “I’ve tried working on essays. When I get stuck, I look up to ask him or reach for a new piece of paper to write him for assistance, then I remember.” He brought a hand up to his eyes. “I see him sometimes, just out of the corner of my eye, but when I look he’s gone.”

            Alexander didn’t say how he clung to those faint images as if he were afraid that he would forget what John’s face looked like or the sound of his laughter. He did not say how he sought his dreams so eagerly if only to get another glimpse of his fallen friend. Paintings were a small comfort, but they were nothing like the real thing. Angelica kissed his cheek before retreating downstairs to her sister. Tomorrow, there would be a large festivity at the Schuyler Manor, but Alexander knew he would not be joining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> φιλία (Philia)-In Greek this is extremely deep love/friendship. It is a lot what Achilles/Patroclus (or at least the type of relationship they teach you about in class), and a lot of the time if you had Philia, you could also have eros, which may come up later. This is the most valued of all the four kinds of Greek "love" and is generally less sexual than eros is.


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